


Don't Blame Me

by quietcarnage



Series: Don't Blame Me, Delicately [2]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angry Sex, Based on a Taylor Swift Song, Bottom Peter Parker, Enemies to Lovers, Falling In Love, Hate Sex, Hate to Love, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Peter's into it, Possessive Peter Parker, Quentin Beck Being a Jerk, Quentin Beck Loves Peter Parker, Slut Shaming, Soft Quentin Beck, Spit As Lube, Top Quentin Beck, Verbal Humiliation, Villain Quentin Beck, barely, very mild peter's into it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:08:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24210343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietcarnage/pseuds/quietcarnage
Summary: Everyone and their mother wants Peter to know that Quentin Beck is a dirtbag. Peter already knows he is, and he can’t get enough.“Don't blame me, love made me crazyIf it doesn't, you ain't doin' it rightLord, save me, my drug is my babyI'd be usin' for the rest of my life”
Relationships: Quentin Beck/Peter Parker
Series: Don't Blame Me, Delicately [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1747417
Comments: 14
Kudos: 138





	Don't Blame Me

**Author's Note:**

> Companion piece/prequel to Delicate.  
> Go read that one for Quentin's point of view, and their relationship through his eyes going forward

He didn’t mean for it to get as out of hand as it did. 

Quentin Beck was an asshole. He was a literal supervillain whether or not that was what he set out to be. Peter was incredibly lucky that the majority of the public took his side when that dirtbag revealed his identity to the world. He was even luckier to find Quentin alive and well to further clear his name, although his voice echoing ‘Spider-Man’s real name is Peter Parker’ would always be etched into his memory.

The first time had been a mistake. Only the first time though.

Mysterio was doing… villain stuff. Peter could barely even remember anymore. They fought, as they often did. 

Sometime in the scuffle, Quentin had wrapped his arms around him from behind to restrain him, a low growl in his ear telling him to hold still, and his body had immediately complied, melting into his grasp like a sigh. Something about the way his voice _commanded_ him. He couldn’t help but obey.

Beck let go of him so fast, he’d immediately fallen to the ground in surprise. Neither of them knew what to make of it, or how to react, and after Beck warily helped him to his feet, they immediately pulled apart again. Like two negatives on a magnet. 

And for the first time... Beck ran.

So did he.

Being held down by Beck, being in his control was euphoric. 

He laid awake that night stroking his cock to the thought of the way Beck’s arms easily encircled his body. He thought about how Beck could easily pin him to a wall, a mattress, the wall of his shower and fuck him senseless.

He came with Beck’s name in his lips, legs spread apart, and his fingers lazily shoved in his hole.

And then again the next night.

By the third night, he knew he was fucked.

-

“Ugh, _fuck_ Peter.”

Beck held him down a firm grip on his waist with one hand, the other one occupied stuffing Peter’s mouth with fingers. His hips erratically slamming against Peter’s ass, chasing his own release. 

The lewd slapping sound coupled with his own muffled whimpers was music to his ears.

The back of his suit had been torn from their scuffle earlier, where Beck had thrown him to the ground. Beck had taken one look at his exposed skin before jumping to take advantage of that tear, ripping the suit down past his thighs and exposing his ass, the only semblance of modesty being the thong he wore beneath. He was expecting this.

With a growl at the pink g-string, a tiny bow sat cutely at the top of his ass, Beck had dragged him into the closest dirty alley, slamming him against a wall that smelled like piss and New York.

He snapped the elastic of his thong hard, each snap of the panties striking his hole and making him keen with need. Frustrated at the pleasured sound, Beck held his hips down with one hand, roughly tearing the thong off with the other.

Peter had yelped, hissing in pain. That seemed to do the trick, as Beck began rutting his clothed dick up between his cheeks. The thong hadn’t come off easily (it was expensive), and Peter was sure he had gotten some sort of fabric burn on his inner thigh from that incident, but by the time he got home that night it had already healed. A shame, really.

The only lube he had gotten was the saliva Beck spat in his hand to slick himself up before he was shoving in. It hurt like hell. 

He’d screamed, and Beck shoved three thick fingers in his mouth.

“Shut the fuck up, Peter. God it's like you _want_ someone to hear us. Is that what you want?”

Peter shook his head, tears rolling down his face as he sobbed and catching on the neck of his suit, the mask long abandoned. His ass stung, and he could feel the soreness that would surely stick with him for days. With his enhanced senses, he easily smelt blood from whatever Beck had torn from brutally fucking into him. 

Everything hurt. 

He’d never been harder in his life.

Beck had his body pressed against the younger man’s pinning his chest down against the wall with his much larger form as he sharply thrust in and out with small grunts. Peter knew he could fight him off easily, but why would he? He wanted to let Beck have control, to let Beck take all his anger out by wrecking him in the worst way possible. He craved it like amphetamine.

Beck slapped his face, bringing him back to earth, and he had to resist from biting the fingers gagging him. He could never hurt him.

“-do you hear me? I said fucking hate you. Fuck you. _Fuck you_. You pathetic excuse of a hero. You would let me do this to you, wouldn’t you? You’d let anyone pin you down and fuck you stupid, even your enemies, you fucking slut. Fuck you.” He spit his words out, biting down on the side of Peter’s neck, hard enough to bruise, then hard enough to break skin to leave one claiming mark after the other, before running his tongue over it, a salve.

Peter could do nothing but moan, taking in the words like the poison they were. They hurt. They hurt a lot. He wanted to hear more.

“You better not let anyone else touch you. You’re _mine_ now do you understand? Answer me, bitch.”

Peter barely managed to respond, drooling around Beck’s fingers as his ass was relentlessly pounded, every thrust hurting worse than the last. He reached a hand down to grip his own leaking cock through the suit only to have it roughly jerked away and pinned behind his back. He cried out in pain as it twisted uncomfortably.

Beck stopped thrusting, stilling deep within him to growl in his ear. “Don’t touch yourself. You either come on my cock or you don’t come at all. Now answer me.”

“ _guh-_ yes sir.” Peter gurgled, struggling to speak as Beck pressed his fingers onto his tongue. He ground his hips back in a slow circle, earning him a groan, just feeling Beck inside of him. Feeling full. “‘m yours. All yours.”

“Damn fucking straight you disgusting slut. Look at yourself. You’re getting off on this too. Freak.”

Every word out of Beck’s mouth was venom.

Being talked to, being treated that way should have broken his heart. 

It only turned him on more.

“Beck- _ngh_. Please...”

If he could speak more than single syllable words, he’d be begging for more. Beck knew it too. 

This wasn’t anywhere near their first time.

Peter rutted up against the wall, seeking friction to relieve his aching cock, only for Beck to shove his fingers further down his throat, gagging him. 

“Bad boy, Peter. You know the rules. Don’t make me hurt you.”

Peter whined, drool running down his chin and tears flowing down his face, but complied, letting Beck continue fucking him in ways only he could.

“That’s right. You’re a bad, bad boy. Letting a big bad villain like me fuck you stupid in an alley. What will the world think when they find out their friendly neighborhood Spider-Man _likes_ taking raw cock from his worst enemy?”

Peter moaned, pushing his hips back as Beck’s thrusts got faster, angrily pistoning in and out, never hard enough to push his hips against the wall and grant him that sweet, sweet friction he craved. “Beck,” he choked, trying his best to meet each thrust.

“Say it. Beg for it.”

“Beck, please.” He moaned around his fingers. “I… f-fuck please...”

“That’s fucking right. You _want_ this. You like being fucked like the slut you are. It turns you on knowing just how much. I. Hate. You.”

He slammed home on each word before groaning, filling Peter’s sloppy hole with hot cum. Peter clenched up around him, shaking as he came at the same time with a whimper. It was probably the most romantic they’d ever been.

Beck panted, pulling his fingers from Peter’s mouth, a trail of drool following, all of which he wiped in his hair. 

“Gross.”

Peter practically purred at the feeling of being pet, even if it was with a hand coated in his own saliva. Beck pulled his cock out replacing it with his thumb as a trail of cum leaked out, shoving the drops back in unceremoniously.

Peter knew his suit was sticky, and coated in his own release. He knew he should get it cleaned when he got home, but the thought of washing off the evidence just wasn’t all that pressing.

Without Beck holding him up, he slumped to the ground against the alley, boneless. 

When he looked up, Beck was jerking his cock, milking it for all the spent he could, and wiping the remaining few drops onto Peter’s hair and face. He licked his lips watching Peter run a tongue across his lip to taste the cum he’d wiped there.

“You look like a mess.” Beck snapped a picture with his phone, an unimpressed look on his face. “Thanks for the fuck.”

“Mmm” he hummed contently, watching Mysterio’s cape as he was left behind. With puffy, tearful eyes, a forehead coated in sweat, and drool running down his jaw, Peter knew he looked properly fucked out.

He couldn’t wait for the next time.

-

It was pointless to web Beck up for whatever petty crime he had committed to get his attention, he knew how to get out of it. A look, a lick of the lips, and a suggestive compliment, and Peter would give in without a second thought. 

Webs would be gone, then their clothes, and Beck was free again. 

He realized that he was probably a really bad hero, considering Mysterio’s 100% escape rate, but he couldn’t help it. Sex with Quentin Beck was like taking the world’s strongest drug, and getting so high, you’d rather die than come back down.

He knew it. Beck knew it. And he knew Beck knew how to use it to his advantage.

A simple “bend over, babydoll,” and Peter… would just comply.

Sometimes Beck would finish up his robbery, or whatever he was doing and then fuck him until he couldn’t walk, taunting him about what a useless hero he was, and sometimes Beck would just leave him there. 

He didn’t care that Beck only fucked him to take his anger out. He craved the aggression.

How fucked was that?

Peter justified it telling himself that it wasn’t all bad. Not like he wanted anything more than what Beck was willing to give. It was just sex.

It was supposed to be just sex.

“Get me down, twerp.” Beck frowned where he was webbed up, upside down against the side wall of an abandoned coffee shop. Peter licked his lips, already half hard knowing what was sure to come next.

“You know how to get out, Mysterio. What’s the magic word?”

“You’re such a brat, come on,” Beck smirked, leaning forward, eyes fluttering shut.

Peter felt his ears go red immediately, but by the time he had processed what Beck was doing, it was already happening.

Plush lips pressed against his, a tongue tracing his lower lip and stubble scratching his chin. 

Beck had never kissed him before.

Peter shoved away roughly, stumbling as he fell to the ground, looking up at Beck with wide eyes. He brought a hand up to his lips, the taste of Beck still on his tongue.

His expression was unreadable. he was smirking, but there was no malice behind it. It was unsettling. Not scary, just… Not what he was used to.

Peter sat there in stunned silence. He didn’t know how to react. He didn’t know why Beck had kissed him. He didn’t know. They fucked. That was all it was. Beck would fuck him, use him, degrade him, let him know just how much he despised him.

Why did he kiss him?

Peter dissolved the webs binding Beck to the coffee shop, and ran

-

He was crazy.

That was the only explanation. After taking god knows how many hits to the head as Spider-Man, clearly something got knocked loose, because he was officially insane. 

He was addicted to Beck’s lips.

The way his name sounded on them. The way Beck kissed him when they fucked now, tracing a finger along his jaw so his head would turn and meet his lips.

Peter, Pete, baby, honey, bitch, darling, sweetheart, slut, useless, babydoll, pretty thing, whore, sunshine, cutie pie.

It didn’t matter, Beck could call him whatever he pleased. Whatever he decided on, that would be his name. 

All Peter cared about now, was getting to call him _his_.

“Hey baby, you gonna let me go again, or are you finally gonna let the cops lock me up?”

“I don’t know, Q, what am I getting out of this?”

Beck smirked, his hands webbed together above his head in the ruins of the jewelry store he had broken into. “All these diamonds around you and you’re asking _me_ to give you something?”

“Duh. Unlike you, I’m not a thief.” 

“Oh but you are, Spider-Man.” 

Peter crossed his arms. Beck was being much more playful than usual. A few weeks ago, Peter knew he’d already be sobbing, bent over the display of emeralds and rubies as Beck pulled his hair and called him filthy words with those pretty lips. He wanted to bite them.

The mental image already had him aching for it.

“You’ve stolen something from me, sweetheart.”

“Yeah, what’s that? Your reputation?” He baited. He knew if he got Quentin angry enough, he’d be able to make that fantasy a reality.

“My heart.”

Peter choked on his gasp, coughing into his closed fist as he struggled, wondering if he’d heard Beck correctly.

“Your what?” He squeaked.

Beck sighed, a soft look in his eyes. No pretend smirk, no disguised expressions. Just Beck. “My heart, Peter, will you get me down now, please?” 

Peter braced himself on a glass display, shattering it immediately with his tight grip. His heart was pounding a mile a minute.

There was no way Beck was serious.

If he was… Peter already knew there was no recovering.

Even if he wasn’t, there was no time, he knew the jewelry store alarm went off at least 15 minutes ago, and the cops would be showing up soon.

He reached up with shaking hands to dissolve the webbing. He felt Beck's eyes on his mask, his searing gaze burning Peter’s cheeks hotter than he knew it was possible. He wondered if Beck could hear his heart racing.

His spidey sense went off suddenly, then the crunch of glass under a heavy boot as the store's security guard that Beck had knocked out earlier (but hadn't killed!) staggered at the door, a gun raised and cocked.

“End of the line, Mysterio!” He yelled, firing.

Ugh, who even spoke like that?

With the guards head injury though, he shot wide, completely missing Beck, much to Peter’s relief. He webbed the security guard up as Beck fell to the ground gracefully, rubbing his sore wrists, and then his hands were all over Peter’s body.

Just not in the way he was hoping.

Hungry, searching possessive grasps were replaced with careful, searching tender touches.

“Jesus christ, Peter, your le- You’re bleeding so much oh my god!”

oh.

Peter looked down at his leg. He hadn’t even noticed he had been hit, with how focused he’d been on making sure Beck was alright.

“Oh, yeah it looks like I am.”

“I gotta. I gotta get you to a hospital or something oh my god.”

Peter looked up at Beck’s worried expression. The way his forehead crinkled with concern. He was beautiful. He didn’t want to tarnish that beautiful face with such worry.

“No no no I’m okay. I’m fine, I’ve been shot before, but you should get out of here. Cops are gonna show up any minute now.” Peter noted, clutching at his leg. “Never been this much blood before though.”

He wanted to kiss those wrinkles away.

“Are… are you sure? You look like you’re about to fall over.”

“Yeah, I think I’m gonna. You might want to catch me.”

When he collapsed, Beck carried him back to his place to patch him up. 

Peter spent the night.

For the first time, there was no sex involved. None. Beck didn’t even so much as ask for a handy. He just… bandaged his leg up, tucked him into bed, and pet his sweaty, matted hair until he fell asleep.

When he woke up alone, he almost believed it had all been a dream, but the feeling of Beck curled up behind him dismissed that notion immediately.

Somewhere along the lines of that year, Beck had slowly turned into Quentin, and their angry, spiteful fucks turned into flirtatious winks, dirty innuendos and lame jokes. Peter stopped pissing him off on purpose, knowing he’d be wrecked later in favor of genuinely complimenting his good looks, without angling for a prize.

He didn’t know when their relationship got so soft.

Everyone called him crazy. 

It didn’t exactly come as a surprise to his friends that he was attracted to Mysterio. His track record of lusting after older men didn’t even bat an eyelash when Beck was added to the list, little black hearts scribbled next to his name.

Hell yeah he was crazy. 

Crazy for Quentin Beck.

-

**Q**

**__** _Your place. 10 minutes._

Quentin had stopped committing crimes to get his attention. He didn’t need grand gestures like that anymore. A text with the time and place, and Peter was there.

Peter stopped patrol early that night, landing back in his window, still fully suited just as the door unlocked. The handle turned, Beck walking in, a plastic grocery bag in his hand.

Their clandestine meetings were always kept quieter, and Quentin often brought drinks and a pack of smokes, both of which he would eventually swear to quit. 

“Hey, there’s my favorite spider.” Quentin set his bag and keys down on the counter, walking over to plant a firm kiss on Peter’s lips.

“Hey, Quentin.”

He beamed, jumping up on the man and wrapping his legs around his waist as Quentin walked them back against a wall. Peter moaned, Quentin already unbuckling his belt as he sucked a new mark into his neck.

“Missed you, Q. Missed you so much.” He ran his hands through Becks hair, tugging it to expose his marked up neck. All the bites and kisses Quentin sucked into his skin may disappear within the day, but every mark Peter left stayed from days to weeks.

He loved them. Loved making them and loved looking at them. He made them. They were his.

He traced the old ones with his tongue, placing a new one in an unblemished spot. 

Quentin was his.

“Sweetheart, it’s summertime, I’m tired of wearing turtlenecks.”

“Then don’t.”

Everyone should know it too.

Their meetings, though almost always ending with Peter sandwiched between the mattress and Quentin’s body, shaking and panting, their smoky room and the smell of sex started becoming the closest to paradise he figured he’d get.

“I think I love you,” he had said that night. 

They started officially dating the next morning.

-

The two of them had gone to Luna Park once, where Quentin threw up after a go on the Cyclone. 

Peter had wanted to get on the slingshot, saying it’d be like web swinging, but it wasn’t until they got on and Quentin had a death grip on his hand, eyes clenched shut, did he realize that he probably had a fear of heights.

That probability was confirmed when they got shot up in the air.

They ended up just riding the carousel until Quentin felt better, but just to be annoying, Peter swung them home that night.

After that, Quentin didn’t let him pick date spots anymore. 

Quentin took him out to gorgeous restaurants and flew them off for expensive vacations in Europe. He spoiled him rotten.

Peter knew where the money was coming from, but like many other things in his life around Quentin, he turned a blind eye to it. Some hero he was.

-

Technically, Quentin was still wanted by SHIELD, the FBI, interpol, and anyone that cared, but they could never catch him. 

His baby was just that good.

And Peter wasn’t obliged to cooperate either. In fact, he actively hindered their efforts. He had gotten kicked out of the Avengers for that very reason. Not that he cared. He was more of a solo act anyway. 

For Quentin, he couldn’t care less about the prestige and title of belonging to a greater team. 

He’d fight the whole damn world for Quentin Beck. They couldn’t have him.

Peter knew that quietly dating wasn’t going to last very long. He was pretty recognizable now especially without his secret identity. It was a good month while it lasted before someone inevitably figured it out.

A couple of paparazzi caught the two of them out and about getting lunch, their hands intertwined. Sunglasses and ball caps or not, it was clearly them. The press had a goddamn field day tearing them apart.

They called Quentin all sorts of horrible names despite Peter being a fully functional, full blown adult capable of making his own decisions, and definitely capable of consent.

Between the accusations and outright falsities, it all became too much too quick. He had his good friend Matt Murdock take up the case for slander, the announcement of which was more than enough to keep the tabloids on Quentin quieter. Not silent, but bearable. They wrote articles about him as well, he was sure, but he barely paid it any mind.

One headline that really stood out to him was one describing his relationship as his fall from grace. 

He believed they’d called him ‘desperate’ and ‘insane’ somewhere in the article, so he didn’t take it very seriously, yet the title really stood out to him. It was such a beautiful way to describe it all. 

They weren’t wrong. For Quentin, he’d happily throw out his perfect reputation, a dozen times over.

He’d stomp it into the ground and light it on fire if he could keep Quentin Beck.

He put the headline up on the fridge.

-

Quentin felt horrible throughout the peak of the ordeal. Peter was pretty sure he still did to this day. He worried about the papers constantly, a newspaper always in his hands. 

He’d asked Peter once, if it would be best for him to just go. Hide away somewhere quiet for a few years. Turn himself in maybe. Beck said he thought that he was holding him back from living a full life.

Peter felt like he had just asked him to tear his own heart out.

They fought about it. They didn’t fight often, but they fought about that. 

He wanted Quentin to get mean about it. Wanted him to get angry, wanted him to make their fight any easier, but he was so damn understanding.

“You’re young, Peter. You’re a hero. Why would you ever want me? You know what I’ve done, baby. I can’t hold you back anymore”

He remembered dropping to his knees to cry his eyes out at the mere idea of Beck even wanting to leave. That Beck would think that he wanted him gone.

“Please don’t go. I want you, I just want you.” He sobbed. He felt like a petulant child, fists curls up in Quentin’s shirt as Quentin shushed him, a hand in his hair. “Please don’t go, Q.”

And yeah, there was a point in time, years ago, where he would have killed to have Quentin Beck stay the hell away from him. 

Now, the mere thought of Quentin leaving was enough to kill him.

Peter begged him to stay. 

He did. 

-

Peter knew Quentin felt like he wasn’t deserving of the love he poured onto him. Maybe he wasn’t. 

That was okay. At this point, he was no better. He was too far gone to even pretend he was pure heroicism.

But laying nude together, tangled in the sheets, still wet as steam from the running shower filled the room with a soft, foggy glow, Peter knew he wouldn’t want to be there with anyone else. Quentin was it for him. 

No one would get him like Quentin did. They knew each other inside out.

Maybe they weren’t perfect now, and maybe they never would be, but in his eyes, Quentin was the best and worst thing that could have ever happened to him.

There wouldn’t be a single soul out there that could hook him as hard as Quentin had. He was addicted. He had it bad, but he didn’t regret it.

Laying there, in their shared apartment after making love just to gaze into each other's eyes all giggles and dopey smiles, there was nowhere else he’d rather be, and no one else he’d ever want.

Who could blame him?


End file.
